Chapter 29: The Art of Playing the Long Game

The restaurant existed in a world of its own, tucked away from the neon glare of the city, its entrance marked only by a single, lacquered wooden door. Inside, time slowed. The air carried the scent of aged tea leaves and burning incense, and the faint murmur of conversation wove through the dimly lit space like a secret never meant to be overheard.

Xinyi stepped inside, shoulders squared, gaze sharp but unreadable. The kind of place where deals were struck, debts were remembered, and silence often spoke louder than words.

She didn't need to search. He was already waiting.

At a private corner table, bathed in golden light that barely reached the depths of his expression, sat Liao Zhenhai.

A man who lived in the gray spaces between power and obscurity.

A man with ties to both the Liang and Zhang families, yet bound to neither.

A man who, despite knowing everything, always seemed to walk away untouched.

He watched her approach, dark eyes unreadable, fingers folded neatly over the wooden table as if this were nothing more than a casual meeting between distant acquaintances.

"You came alone?" His voice was smooth, absent of concern, but not absent of calculation.

Xinyi didn't smile, but there was the faintest flicker of amusement in her expression. "I brought bodyguards."

Zhenhai inclined his head, lifting his teacup to his lips before responding.

"Good," he murmured, taking a slow sip. "You'll need them."

A Game of Wits and Silence

There was no rush. The tea was poured, steaming between them in delicate porcelain cups. Silence stretched, carefully measured, a prelude to the real conversation.

Xinyi did not fill the space with meaningless pleasantries.

This was his game.

She let him play.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Zhenhai set his cup down, fingers brushing against the rim in a thoughtful gesture.

"You remind me of your father," he said, studying her reaction.

Her grip on the porcelain remained steady, but the air around her seemed to cool by a fraction.

"I don't believe in flattery," she replied evenly.

"Neither did he," Zhenhai mused, tilting his head slightly. "And yet, it was his downfall."

Xinyi's expression remained impassive.

"You mean the curse was his downfall."

Zhenhai exhaled a quiet laugh, more air than sound, before shaking his head. "Do you?"

The way he said it—so soft, so measured—made her stomach tighten.

A pause. A shift in the air.

And then, with deliberate ease, he reached into his coat, pulling out an old leather-bound notebook.

The kind that didn't just hold information—it held weight. A relic. A piece of history that should not have survived this long.

He placed it between them, his fingers tapping lightly against the worn edges.

"Your father wasn't the first to try breaking the cycle," he said, watching her carefully. "And he won't be the last."

Xinyi's heartbeat remained steady. "And what do you gain from telling me this?"

Zhenhai's smile was slow, knowing.

"Uncertainty," he murmured. "It keeps me safe. It keeps me relevant. If no one knows what I truly want, then no one can move against me."

A cold, calculated honesty.

And yet—

"That also makes you a suspect," Xinyi countered, her tone like a blade drawn without hesitation. "Uncertainty benefits you, but if you know too much, then sooner or later, someone will decide you're better off dead."

Zhenhai chuckled, finally lifting his teacup again.

"See?" he said approvingly. "You really do remind me of your father."

She didn't take the compliment.

She took the notebook.

And just like that, the night turned in her favor.

...

Liu Shuyin liked wine.

Not for the taste—though she had a deep appreciation for a well-aged red—but for what it represented.

Wine slowed people down.

It made them sip, hesitate, second-guess. It forced restraint.

And hesitation?

That was where she found all the answers she needed.

The lounge was dim, luxurious in the way that only mattered to those who never had to check their accounts. Muted jazz hummed through the speakers, a quiet rhythm for those who preferred their power whispered rather than announced.

Shuyin swirled the deep crimson liquid in her glass, gaze flicking toward the entrance.

Wei wouldn't come.

She had known that from the start.

But she had still given him the chance to prove her wrong.

Her phone buzzed lightly on the table.

 "Busy."

A single-word text. No apology. No explanation. Classic Wei.

Shuyin smirked, taking a slow sip of her wine.

"Of course you are."

She didn't ask why. She didn't press.

Because she already knew.

...

The Art of Knowing Too Much

A shadow moved near the entrance.

A man—not Wei—took a seat across from her without invitation.

Shuyin raised a brow, exhaling softly as she tilted her head. "Bold of you."

The man—one of her lesser contacts, a name she never bothered to remember—offered a small, knowing smile.

"Got a tip for you."

She leaned back, swirling her glass lazily. "I'm listening."

"Zhang factories. Liang factories. Collapses in both. Weird rumors floating around." The man placed a folded note on the table. "And now? Medical research teams getting involved."

Shuyin didn't react.

Not outwardly.

But inside, something clicked.

Wei wasn't just busy. He was deep into something.

Something big enough to make him forget distractions.

Something serious enough to shift the undercurrents of the city.

She picked up the note between two fingers, unfolding it delicately.

Names. Dates. Locations.

Her smirk widened.

"Well then, Zhang Wei," she mused silently, sipping her wine. "What exactly are you playing at?"

And just like that—

The night turned in her favor, too.